Banana Belt #3 3/19

Preview: 6 laps of a rolling 11-mile course, done on dry pavement with a few patches of ice, bathed in sunlight but still freezing cold. About 55ish starters.

Synopsis: feeling my worst, getting my best.

Pre-race: I couldn’t eat last night. Weirdest thing. Me, Mark, not wanting to eat. Well, anyways, I forced it down. Gotta eat fat to burn fat. Still, this morning, after my lamest sleeping performance in months, I had no appetite, and had this burpy acidic feeling in my gut that made just being awake nearly unbearable. I sacked up, ate a bagel and a Mojo bar, had like 4 pints of EmergenC and about 20 ounces of coffee while I drove alone out to the race. Nobody else from my team was there. Not a single other cat 3 or women’s cat 4 (the morning races). It was a lonely and miserable morning.

The race: the 3’s hauled ass today. Well, anyways, about 25 of us did. The others were out the back, pronto. At one point I thought I was riding near-ish the front, pointed to a pothole and yelled, “hole”, and then laughed with the guy next to me when we realized we were at the end of the line. It was a brisk pace. All day there were attacks, breakaways and catches. I helped for a while with the bridging of gaps, but stopped on the 4th lap when the word “dropped” started echoing in my head. I was hurting. I used the elastic today for the first time this year. It held, and I snapped back on. The stupidest thing: I was hungry. Feeling hungry in a 66 mile RR is a sure sign that your preparation sucked. I kept turning them over one stroke at a time and was glad to find myself still in it on the last lap. There weren’t many of us left.

10 miles to go, yet another group goes. Two, shortly joined by two more. They just hang there at 20 seconds. By 5 to go, it really looks like they’re toasted, but two U of O riders jump to join them. If the group were making any time at all, we would have been scared. A guy from Broadmark even commented to me sarcastically, “Great idea. Bridge to a fried breakaway.” For one of them, tho, it turned out to be a great idea. Two miles to go and they’re still right there, and it’s not because of any laziness on our part. We were cooking. But the sprint was coming (really cooking), and we knew we’d get ‘em. A mile to go, we’re on our way up the last climb. I am bewildered to find that I’ve got the legs to go from the back to the front of the chasing pack up the ascent. I guess everyone else was tired, too. At the top, I felt like I could reach out and touch the break. Down the descent, we paceline too fast for them and they’re caught. Ehhhksellent. I settle in to start defending possession of my spot right near the rotating front. I know that my best bet is to be the first one over the roller that crests 200 meters from the finish (stay out of traffic, Marko!). We hit the bridge, which was nice and dry this week, and I slingshot off my wheel and go. I’m pleased to see that I’m going the fastest. I am really, really disappointed to see, for the first time, the guy 50 meters off the front of my wheel: an escapee of the escape group. I hadn’t counted ‘em when we caught ‘em. I did not know he was there. Shitters. We were all sprinting for second. Oh well. I crested the top first (in the bunch) and saw the finish line. Right then a guy comes off my wheel and around me. My afterburners fire and I’m on his wheel. Another guy comes around on the other side. I’m losing. I fire again to try to get around. I’m geared out: in my 53-12 turning over a standing 100 rpm. Come on, legspeed! I can’t do it. It was everything I could muster and I only gained about half a bike length. The two guys beside me threw bikes for second and I sat up for fourth.

The silver lining: I am totally happy to have done that well whilst feeling so bad. Also, for once I don’t have a tactical mistake haunting me for the rest of the day, preventing me from falling asleep at night. That guy that won made a sweet move, and he deserves the win. I wish we had pulled him back, but I certainly don’t feel personally responsible for it (especially as the sole rep of my team). I gave everything I had. I wish it had been enough, of course, but it definitely sits better with me to feel weak than to feel stupid.

Banana Belt #2 3/12

…5 laps of a rolling 11-mile course around Hagg Lake. Drizzly, surprisingly cold weather. Wet tarmac with slush and snow hugging the white line. About 60 starters.

The result: another mistake, another mediocre result.

The good news: I held in there. I’d worried that I’d get popped. I felt like crap. The one short climb on the course got harder each lap of course, but it was never even close to worrisome. Great. I am quite pleasantly surprised by all of that.

The bad part: I was so worried about my legs that I left my head in the car. With Coker (OBRA #519) out of my group via upgrade, I was lost in the run in. Which of these guys were going to haul ass up the finishing grade, and which were just up there protecting their top 30 finish? No idea. I played it safe, I thought, by staying on the center line (planning a left hand pass), at about 10th wheel. Bad idea. The sprint didn’t go. We rode finishing meters 700-300 at about 15mph. Trapped. It finally “goes” and everybody in front of me is friggin’ weak. Yeah, I said it. What were they doing up there? They sure as hell weren’t leading anybody out. Meanwhile, the real contestants go around on the right shoulder, as I should have (I had tried that in the prime and nearly got intimate with Candy at the line). By the time I “Grand Theft Auto” through the blockage, I’m probably 15th. I then--and this is the saddest part--just start swallowing everyone in front of me. Good fitness. Nobody I saw was going faster than I was, but 6 guys were nonetheless bound to get there sooner (which, they say, is what matters!).

In a similar race almost a year ago, there was one crucial difference for me: Darren. Instead of being forced to guess about where the traffic might be less backed up in a lazy, late, one-lane-wide, Red-Rover style “sprint”, I had him on the front kicking out the jams all the way in, so that by the time we jumped, only the fittest remained on the front to duke it out for the victory… and I was treated to a front row seat. Miss you, D. That’s how it’s done. ...just a little shout out for my long lost homie paying $1400 a month rent in SF.

For those of you that still don’t get this road racing thing that I'm doing; I promise, it’s a team sport. When poaching the sprint works, you look like a genius; but the rest of the time, your result is just what everyone would have expected. All that said, it was definitely still me that chose to be where I was, and I am cleary not a genius. Mistake.

Wish I had better news for y’all. I’ll try again next week. Wah, wah. Boo hoo. More aggressive, more aggressive... is "next week" becoming my catchy sign-off? Dubois, come up here and berate me until I start racing like I want to win.

That's me with the pink cap, frozen fingers, and, yes... glasses (thanks, Molly!):
http://www.printroom.com/ViewGalleryPhoto.asp?userid=PhotoFaction&gallery_id=341626&image_id=18

Banana Belt #2 Preview

I’ve been sick for two weeks. I wake up every day with a sore throat, and when I get on the bike, I have no power. Nothing. Three scheduled road rides in a row I’d turned and gone home in frustration and shame. Friday I decided that I’m probably never going to beat this thing and that I’d better just get used to it. I rode with Mike and Jess despite feeling like shit. I got paged on every climb and was dropped pretty much every time they weren’t coasting. It was pathetic. But I (and they) suffered through it (thanks, guys). Saturday I felt almost better. I rode 2 hours with a mixed group and put in a solid effort, nothing mind-blowing: 307 W for 20 minutes. Last night Jess found us a ride to the race in the 11th hour. This morning I woke up 5 hours earlier than I have since last Sunday--with a sore throat, of course, drank a bunch of EmergenC, ate some peanut butter and got ready to race, having absolutely no idea what to expect.

Banana Belt Series, Race #1, 3/5

This will be the last I speak or write about this race.

It was a mere 4 laps of a rolling 11-mile course on a rainy day. Next week it’ll be 5; 6 the next. They’re all short, but this was “the short one”. For me, it punctuated a crappy week. I’ve been fighting a sore throat and chronic gastrointestinal distress. I rode a whopping 9.4 hours this week. I thought, going into it, that the punctuation mark would be an ellipsis, but in the final kilos it looked to be an exclamation point. Maybe two or three. Anyways… (<- ellipsis)

I was never in ‘a bit of bother’; for the second time in the two road races so far. The hills were sharp but not long enough to be selective. I rode smart near the front and didn’t let anyone use me. I'm riding for me and me alone. (Yes, Jess popped again (what??? how???)) (Yes, nested parentheses)

The points sprint after two laps didn’t play out for me. I got to the front and cycled about in the paceline, hoping for an opportunity, but definitely not forcing anything--always thinking more about the finish. Too far up too early, I found that it was my turn to pull through with 700 m to go. Perfectly bad position. I took the pull like a good sport and watched the sprint from 10th wheel. FYI: if you’re not going to -for sure- take first or second in a “hot spot sprint”, don’t bother. I didn’t. (That is, unless there’s a prize messenger bag for the sprint, you're gonna win the GC anyways, and you really need a messenger bag)

So, fast-forward to the finish. I felt great. 2.5 k to go, we surmounted the last short climb. I was 8th wheel. 2 to go. I muscle my way, on the downhill at 35 mph, onto the wheel that I want: #519… the big guy on the red Cannondale that took the sprint ahead of me at Cherry Pie. I’m 10th wheel, behind the guy that my stomach knows will take 1st unless I outsprint him. A guy from the left tries to push me off--I shoulder him against the centerline. 1.5 to go. A guy tries to push me off from the right. I pull a couple strokes to get my right wrist ahead of his hoods and move right. My wheel. 1 to go. A bastard ass rock lands in my right eye. No problem… blink it out. No go. Rub it out. No go. Can’t see. Try to blink it out again. No go. We’re hitting the sharp right onto the narrow bridge with wet metal plates in it that is idiotically placed 700 m from the downhill finish. I can’t see. On 70% instinct and 30% blurry doublevision, I hold my line and don’t cause any fatalities. I can’t see. I’ve lost my wheel, I can see that much. The sprint goes. I decide that at this point, I’ll be lucky to get away with merely not becoming ‘the guy that caused the pile up’. I sprint just enough to hold position. I very, very narrowly get around this Guinness asshole that’s gone early and cracked and is coming through the center of the bunch kick 10 mph slower than the rest of us. I coast across the finish line and straight to the side of road where I plead with the back of the passing pack to give me some plain-old water. A really nice guy obliges me and is surprised to see me shoot his water bottle right into my eye. The pain sucks. Bad. It takes me 10 minutes to get the rock out. I still, right now, have blurry vision out of my right eye. Sigh. I really hope it goes away.

I know I should wear glasses. I do on dry days. But on rainy days, I can (almost) always blink the water and road grit out; but when that shit hits your glasses, you just can’t see… period. So, no glasses. I guess wearing them is a skill that one has to practice. I’ll work on it.

In my own defense: the guy that won wasn’t wearing them either. #519. Yeah, the guy I was fighting to follow into his sprint. Yep. I felt good, too. As I type this, I don’t feel like I’ve raced today. My toy computer tells me my pulse peaked at 183 in my “sprint”. No cool down necessary. Once again, the silver lining is that my fitness was there. I’m stronger than a lot of those guys. I guess that knowledge is nice, but in a way it also puts a lot of pressure on me. I can’t wait until there’s more than one race a week. If I were in collegiate, I’d be saying, “Well, shit, I’ll win the crit tomorrow.” No go. Sigh. Sorry Dubois, I'm no closer to being your Cat 2 domestique. So, until next week, yours truly.